Sunday, June 1, 2014

Joseph Somoza

Living TheaterThe sprinkler continues sending out itsarcs of gleaming water thatgravity converts to puddles.It’s like a story being told, like the hero stories sung continuously the thirty nights of Ramadan.A fly lands on a sunny portionof my notebook as I’m writing,sitting in my yard in the denim shirt I worewaiting on a bench for the museumto open in Madrid after we had hadtostadas with café con leche— years ago,which translates to a million momentssuch as this, each one a link to then, and then. “And then?” the storyteller pauses for effect, unlike the way the story actuallyunfolds, each fold releasing all its secrets naturally, necessarily, without melodrama.***Out of OrderBecause we weren’t tired, I guess,we got up, dressed, and drove through the dark townto have breakfast. It was the time to be tired in this middle-class town. The owners of the cars that would’ve been crowding the streets were still sleeping. A homeless man rested hishead next to his coffee cup at IHOPwhen we walked in. Even the onewaitress told us how tired she was,working the graveyard shift.The coffee she poured to “warm up”our coffee wasn’t any warmer. You’d think you could get coffee hot on a cold night, especially whenpaying two dollars for it. But the waitress knew the night was for sleeping. Who were we making demands, disturbing the town’s rest at 5 a.m.?******